The Havishams
by rinaissance
Summary: And even as they embalm themselves to defy the passage of time, they decay faster than anyone has seen. A 5-part drabble series. – Ichigo, Rukia and broken clockworks.


A writing exercise as I worm my way back to the fandom - a five part drabble series of random pieces of work I've typed up in my iPad. Set between chapters 423 and 424.

_For the IchiRuki shippers I've met in tumblr._

**Disclaimer: **Kubo-sensei's.

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**The Havishams  
****By: **rinaissance

_So unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened room, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that I felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that mysterious place, and, while I and everything else outside it grew older, it stood still._ - **_Great Expectations, _Charles Dickens**

.

_One_

_See you later, _he says and then, _Thank you_. His delivery is clear, a little strained if she thinks too much of the soft murmur in his voice, but firm and assured nonetheless.

Rukia does not know how Ichigo is seeing her, but she knows every concrete part of her is disappearing from his view. It is in his jaw, tautly set on the sides; in the smoother curvature of his scowl, so unlike Kurosaki Ichigo; and in the many shards of lights reflected in his eyes. She reels at how much he can say in the few seconds he lets his expression betray his earlier defensive remarks.

It is his eyes that leave an imprint in her mind, and Rukia immediately thinks of the many nights and the many idle seconds to come she will spend haunted by the warmth of amber and orange and of _him him him_. There is an unspeakable depth in them when he finally scans the small crowd - a depth that Rukia wishes she can pull him out from, but knows she cannot.

So she jumps into the abyss swirling beneath his eyes and hopes that even as he keeps his gaze parallel to the ground, he knows that she is staying.

"…I am going back to bed," Ichigo says.

She will endure.

.

It is when a gust of the cold November wind cuts his eyes, that he bids Chad, Ishida and Inoue his goodbyes. He does not like the way they look at him when he roughly shakes his head with eyelids tightly shut - the way Inoue's lips curves downwards and trembles; or the way Ishida does not push his eyeglasses up as it slides down the bridge of his nose; or the way Chad's face shadows as he tilts his head downwards, betraying the usual neutrality in his features. Or the way that he, himself, notices all these regardless of the dust collecting and piercing his eyes.

"Stupid fucking wind," he says.

It takes him ten steps to reach the front porch, eight to the bottom of the stairs, eleven to the next floor, and three to his room. His pacing is measured and calculated, and Ichigo almost laughs bitterly at his newfound eccentricity.

He collapses into his bed, the sudden tremble in his knees unsettles him. But this moment of physical weakness is something he prefers to admit over the throbbing weight on his chest.

"I cannot see her," he whispers into air, slowly at first, almost hesitant, almost as if he himself cannot believe how foreign he sounds.

The truth slaps him on either cheeks as he recalls his frustration when Chad, Ishida and Inoue turned their heads either to the side or to the ground. As if for them to look is an invasion of privacy - in his case, a blow to everything he has.

_What a bunch of fools, _he accuses silently. But then maybe he is the foolish one because he cannot help the frustration festering at the pit of his stomach, or the primal need to unbind himself from the truth that wears him down. Cannot accept that _they _can all make those pitiful faces when he can't. He feels cheated - he saw Rukia first, knew her first, won't it make more sense if he were to see and know and feel her last?

His head falls to his side, eyes settling on the corner where he expects her to be. He cannot be quite sure where to look, or if there is anything to look for at all, but Ichigo lets his eyes wander and trace every edge, every dent, every line of his closet until he can almost picture with pinpoint clarity how the light changes the hues of an otherwise dull brown.

But when he recites all the shades of brown he sees from behind his closed eyelids - _brown, stupid fucking brown, is there any other shade of brown that I know_? - all he sees is a blurred image of violet eyes and a blinding white light.

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**Notes: **I am awful at present tense and vignettes and stream of consciousness but this has to be done else, _The Puppet Show _will never see the light of day.

Review, is as always, appreciated. Thank you!


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